


Mon Cœur

by EternalFangirl



Series: Henry Plantagenet is Mine Series [3]
Category: Henry V - Shakespeare, The Hollow Crown (2012)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Massage, Picnics, Quickies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-27
Updated: 2015-08-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 14:23:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4669916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EternalFangirl/pseuds/EternalFangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry and Kate’s impromptu picnic in the gardens leads to activities of another kind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mon Cœur

**Author's Note:**

> So, I just read a very detailed timeline of the life and times of Henry V, and realised that Harry and Kate were in France during their wedding night (and then about six more months). In case you have read the first story in this series, you know I didn’t write it as such. We will just call it artistic license, shall we? Good. From now on, I will try to keep up with the timeline, but you and I both know that is a bit impossible.

Harry was in the best of spirits.

Usually, he did not have time to see his wife in the middle of the day. Lunch, when remembered, was a hasty meal with nobles falling over themselves to mumble schemes in his ear as he chewed. Tea was a forgotten concept, for he had a new country, if not in name yet then in deed. He was the heir of France, and Melun did not like that.

Today, however, he was going to meet his wife in the middle of the day. He was going to let go of the worries of court for an afternoon, spend it with his wife, and if anyone thought that was scandalous, they could go fuck themselves.

Harry’s steps hastened, then froze abruptly as he neared the royal chambers. He could hear the soft sobs of his dear wife through the door. Catherine was crying.

And he was going to find whoever had made his wife cry, and he was going to feed them their bloody heart, so help him God.

“Catherine? What has you so undone, my love?”

Catherine was sitting on the edge of the bed, sobbing into her hands. His heart clenched, as the red-hot anger from moments ago was chased away by a feeling of helplessness. Slamming the doors shut, he rushed to hug his wife.

Catherine made a valiant attempt to contain her sobs as she clung to him, then gave up and wept against his chest. Feeling like a useless idiot, Harry stroked her back helplessly, trying to look into her eyes. “Tell me, dear heart. Tell me what troubles thee, and I shall vanquish it.”

Catherine simply shook her head. “It is nothing, my Lord.”

“Harry,” he corrected distractedly, as had become the norm. “Tell me, Kate.” Harry sat on the bed, with her in his lap. She squirmed in embarrassment again, which made him smile.

“The tutors,” she mumbled into his shoulder. “They say I will never speak as a Englishwoman. They speak of me as if I am not in the room, am not intelligent. They consider me stupid, and teach me nothing. Every word out of their mouth is another attempt to joke at my expense.” Finally, she looked into his eyes. Hers were wet, and fiery now. “They teach me nonsense words, words that no proper lady should speak. My maids have told me the meaning of some of the words. I dislike my lessons entirely, my Lord.”

“Harry,” he corrected. “I shall have those idiots removed from London immediately. If they think so greatly of their skills at language, they can serve the French court as my ambassadors.”

Catherine giggled as she squirmed closer. “Thank you, Harry.”

They sat together for a few moments, a man with the weight of three kingdoms on his shoulders and a woman making a new life in a new, hostile world. They needed nothing more than the company of each other, however, to remember the good in the world. Catherine buried her nose in her husband’s throat, taking in the scent of him—the sweat, the grime, and the heady fragrance that was just him.

“I shall have a tutor brought from France for you,” he said. “The most learned Frenchmen. Maybe you will speak better English than I.”

“You hear your uncle, Harry. Frenchmen in English court is a dangerous. That is no of my maids travelled with me.”

Harry was getting better at understanding broken English. He hummed in response, still working the problem in his head.

“What is cow?”

“Pardon?”

“Une cow,” Catherine repeated carefully. “The tutor with the pointy nose—Lord Cambridge. He said I was stupid cow. What is cow?”

Harry made it a point to take away all material possessions belonging to Lord Pointy Nose. Starting with his dukedom—the only thing left would be a single cow.

“An animal,” he tried explaining. “The one we get milk from.”

“La vache?” Catherine bristled. “Il m'a appelé une vache?”

“Erm… yes?” Harry tried not to laugh at the look of violent indignation on Catherine’s face. “Is that the correct answer?” There was a moment of suspended indignation, and then they both started laughing at the same time.

“Will you hang him from the castle walls?”

“Who? Lord Pointy Nose or a harmless cow?” Harry would have added a quip or two, but he was suddenly distracted by Catherine tracing a finger over his Adam’s apple.

“What is that?”

“Your dashing and dangerous husband,” he replied teasingly. “It’s called an Adam’s apple.”

“Adam’s apple,” Catherine repeated dutifully. “Why not you teach me English?” Her question was forlorn, however. She knew her husband was too busy for words currently.

Harry laughed. “I suggest the most learned man in your country as your tutor, and you insist on having me? Ah, Kate, you are divine. Ask me then, go on, ask me things you want to know.”

“How to make court trust me?”

Harry’s smile disappeared. That was a very serious question indeed, for everyone distrusted the new queen. Harry had been very careful when he was out publicly, making very sure he held her in high regard and broadcasting his love for her to the world. Other than that, they would just have to wait.

“Time,” he said finally. “Once I am crowned the king of France, and the revolt there settles, people will stop seeing you as a spy, for there will be no war. Hopefully, by that time, we will have an heir, solidifying your position greatly.” He smirked despite the serious matter at hand--he was never going to tire of his wife’s blushing.

“What is this?” Catherine pointed to his clothes, shiny and tighter than anything she had ever seen a man wear.

Harry laughed. “Clothes. This is a jerkin, and it is made of leather. You are flitting from one topic to the other today, my love. I love that inquisitive brain of yours.” He smiled fondly as she frowned. “Questioning,” he explained.

“Would you take a stroll in the gardens with me, mon roi?”

“Harry,” he said automatically. He didn’t know his wife called him by his official title on purpose nowadays, relishing the feeling of entitlement when he corrected her. “And we are going to do better than that. We are going to have a picnic in the garden.”

 

Several minutes later, they were alone in the gardens, walking to the gazebo and their lunch. The March weather was perfect for a walk in the garden, and Harry felt the tensions of the morning slip away from him. Neither of them spoke. It wasn’t necessary.

“I apologize for not being there during your coronation. It was a very urgent matter--”

“I apologize my brother is being un sale enculé,” she replied promptly. Once the words were out of her mouth, she froze, embarrassed beyond words. How could she have said such a vile thing in front of her husband?

“I am assuming you just insulted your brother,” said Harry. He couldn’t stop the petty grin from blooming. “What does it mean?”

“I will not tell you,” Kate said with authority.

Harry shrugged. A good king chose his battles. Besides, he could always invoke this incident if he wanted to see his wife blush. He was going to have to ask the French ambassador what the word meant. That would be fun.

Having reached the gazebo, Harry helped his wife ascend the stairs to the feast spread out before them. A page boy was standing at a distance behind the gazebo, ready to run to them upon being summoned, but out of hearing distance as Harry had asked for. He immediately sat down on the cushions spread around the food, then groaned and relaxed even more, ending up stretched out on his side, with his weight on one elbow.

Once again, Kate admired the dashing figure her husband presented. She acknowledged the now familiar feeling in the pit of her stomach as she sat, her skirts settling gracefully around her. But she could see the tense shoulders and the rigid way Harry held himself, and hated her brother for it. She debated on what sort of a sister she was if she could hate her brother so easily.

“I am sorry,” she said again. “Louis should simply accept the treaty our father made.”

Harry just looked at her as he broke off some grapes to eat.

“I mean, you are good king. You will care for French people. He should understand that. It is difficile, having my brother create troubles for my brother by law.”

“Thomas can handle it,” Harry said thoughtfully. “He sent a letter today. We can and will hold what is rightfully ours. Do not trouble yourself with matters of court, my love,” he said as Kate frowned. “You beautiful face deserves no frowns.” He reached forward for another morsel.

“I not love to see you tense. Vous ne souriez pas maintenant...”

“Pardonnez-moi?”

Katherine blushed as she ate a piece of richly buttered bread. “Nothing.”

On an impulse, she got up and dusted her voluminous skirts. The page boy started to move forward, but stopped after a couple of steps. With Harry’s curious eyes on her, Kate nimbly navigated around the feast and resettled behind her prone husband.

He jerked a little as her hands met his shoulders, then groaned when she began to massage them. “Détendez-vous,” she murmured in his ear, and resisted the urge to lick it. The boy was watching.

Harry had no idea what she had just said, but he smiled at her, and relaxed under the attention she was giving her. He was no fool to go looking in the mouth of a gift horse.

Kate smiled as she felt her husband follow her gentle demand. Kate made a disapproving sound as she encountered knotted and tense muscles. She pushed him into a better position onto the cushions, then seriously got to work. She let her hands roam freely along his back, kneading in firm strokes, marvelling at the strong and lean form of her husband. She tried to knead the tension out of the shoulder closest to her--his left--by using circular motions. On the top of his spine, she was far gentler, using both palms to bracket his neck while her thumbs applied pressure in the middle.

She had some difficulty reaching around to the other shoulder. Briefly, she considered kneeling on his other side. It was not possible, for the food was barely a metre away from him. She settled for reaching across the vast expanse of her husband’s back, a hand braced on his lower back for balance while she kneaded his shoulder with the other. Her face was right next to Harry’s head in this position, and he could feel her breath on his curls.

“If you wish me to calm down, wife, you are going about it the wrong way,” said Harry, then leaned his head back like a cat when she rubbed the base of his neck.

She was quiet, conscious of the boy watching them from a little further away. Harry, however, had no such qualms. He groaned throatily as she put pressure on his lower back, arching into the touch, then let out an obscene moan as Kate followed his spine to the hollow between his shoulder blades. He wondered briefly if he should risk pneumonia by taking off his jerkin. The thought of Katherine’s amazing hands on his skin was enough to have him seriously consider it.

Kate, on the other hand, was entirely focused on the tension in her husband’s body. Using firm, kneading strokes, she massaged the shoulder blades and the part where the shoulder met the neck. Harry twisted his face to kiss her fingers, but she pretended not to notice. If he knew he was affecting her, he wouldn’t stop at all, and they would end up scarring a little boy for life.

As her hands made their way back to his waist and the end of his spine, Harry started to squirm. She thought the pressure was too much, so she reduced the pressure as she made soothing sounds in his ear. With gentle strokes, Kate used her fingers to put pressure on his spine while the rest of her palm caressed his sides. He kept squirming.

“Kate,” he said, a little breathless. “Make him leave.”

“Comment vous dites?”

Harry repeated his words into the cushions beneath him, still arching into her touch.

Kate’s hand stilled. Oh. Oh. She hadn’t actually intended that.

“Boy,” she said, then realised her voice barely a parched whisper. “Boy!”

He stumbled a bit as he hurried to the gazebo. “Anything I can help with, your Majesty?”

“Leave us,” she said, injecting as much authority in the words as she could. “We have no need of you.”

The boy, barely ten years of age, took one look at the prone king with his head buried in silk pillows, got no objection, and fled. His feet hurt from standing for so long.

As soon as his footsteps receded, Harry turned around, grabbed his wife, and proceeded to kiss her with such vigour she was certain he was going to suck her brains out.

She yelped as he bodily lifted her and planted her on top of him. Panicked, she adjusted her skirts, trying to find her balance. Her knees were on pillows on both sides of her prone husband, and it was a decidedly improper position to be in. Mindful of prying eyes, she looked around.

“Fuck everyone else,” he advised her as he lifted himself up to reach her lips again.

She shied away. “What does that word mean?”

“Huh?” Harry, whose single focus was on fucking his wife, couldn’t for the life of him think of the meaning of the word for a second. “Sex. Rapports sexuels. Mating. Sex.” Damn it, it had been too long. 

Kate giggled, then looked around once again. “Harry…”

Harry, busy trying to unfasten the ungodly number of restrictions between him and the most beautiful pair of breasts in the world, knew her objection already. “Fuck everybody else,” he muttered again.

Kate now knew the meaning of that word. “I had much rather you didn’t, my Lord.”

Harry let out a triumphant cry as he finally managed to reveal one snowy breast. He latched on like a hungry child. Kate giggled, then hissed when his tongue got to work. With one of his hands holding the breast he was sucking, his other made it’s way to her waist, coaxing her to relax more of her weight on him. Confident of her husband’s strength, she lowered herself, then jerked upright with a squeak when she realised he was far more ready than she was. Her impromptu massage had really affected him.

Not that she had suddenly become immune to his charms. With her hips cradling his hard manhood, she leaned forward when he murmured a request. His mouth captured hers again. The combined effect of his blue gaze, his delectable lips and the slightly chilly wind on her breast had her squirming wantonly.

Harry’s hands made their way to the secret place between her legs, but he made a muffled voice of protest as he met her skirt. Catherine was afraid he was going to tear it off her. But after a moment of gathering copious amounts of silk, Harry reached his goal, and his wife stopped thinking.

Having ascertained that Kate was wet enough, Harry fumbled at his breaches. Oh, how lucky were women never to be stuck with undergarments! They were treacherous and disastrous little things, fastenings and what not, when all a man wanted was to be inside his mewling, ready, eager wife.

Catherine had simply forgotten she was in the open. Her husband was placing small, desperate kisses on her throat and her shoulder, and one of his hands was tangling itself deliciously in her hair. She could feel him fumbling near her groin, and she marvelled in her power as his queen, for he was trembling.

Finally freed, Harry thrust home with a triumphant grin his wife shared, then groaned as his eyes rolled back at her steady heat. For Kate, no view could be prettier than her husband in the throes of pleasure, with his head thrown back and his neck corded and sweaty. She loving flicked an errant curl off her back as she began to move tentatively.

Harry helped her, of course. He was devoid of words again, as he always was when they got intimate, but she knew his sounds now--the hidden meaning behind every grunt, every moan, and every hiss. She moved in which ever way suited her, and he neither stopped nor corrected her. Her hips eventually moved in a sensual eight formation, and Harry rocked into it with abandon.

“Kate...” the word was a sigh, a soft expulsion of breath as he kissed her. Then he looked into her eyes and took her breath away. His hands were getting busy now--one rubbing her secret place in time with her movements and the other kneading her breasts. Kate leaned into him, almost rubbing herself shamelessly against him, and he took the opportunity to take her breast back into his mouth. She groaned.

Harry leaned up, still inside her, still rubbing her clit. He looked into her eyes, and said, “Je t’aime, ma reine, ma cœur. Toujours.”

The words rang in her ears, her mind and her heart as she finished with a silent scream, the movement of her inner muscles enough to cause Harry to tumble over the edge too. His scream was not silent, though. Kate collapsed on top of him, spent, disheveled, and decidedly improper. She reveled in it. And basked like a greedy cat in the warmth of her husband’s affection.

They ended up improvising a toilette for themselves from the several silk napkins and pitchers of water.The water lead to playful drenching, which lead to competitive drenching. Giggling like schoolchildren, they cleaned themselves up the best they could--Harry even proposed licking in order to ascertain she was completely clean--before they descended on the food like a couple of ravenous vultures.


End file.
